White Mourning
by Chimuwaku
Summary: White is not only the color of purity, but also the color of mourning, and can be tainted, defiled, ruined; it is the color which Hashirama wore proudly, despite every darker patch and crevice of his soul, until white became his curse.


**A/N:** An AU where the tables are turned just a bit and you get one scary Rikudou Hashirama. Oh, and some not-so-typical HashiMada angst.  
**Summary: **White is not only the color of purity, but also the color of mourning, and can be tainted, defiled, ruined; it is the color which Hashirama wore proudly, despite every darker patch and crevice of his soul, until white became his curse.  
**Warning:** _Tw: blood_ and_ gore_. Character deaths (and re-deaths?). A bit of smut. Rated M.

* * *

A rotted, fleeting figment of the former hokage darts forward, paper fingers touching oak in this dark, dark hell, and on his tongue he almost tastes the deteriorated flesh and maggots. There are no longer any callouses, rough marks, or scars of battle to be found; he is a long-dead amaranth, wilting globes of false skin and bone as he pushes out of his encasement, shoving aside rough-hewn, splintered wood, and his eyes snap wide open, revealing rings of violet to this ugly world.

And when the lid falls, and he steps out, unfurling his bare hands experimentally, these eyes of the Rikudou Sennin are dead as well, with nothing but a nasty gleam of impatience and a flicker of agony as he breaks free from the holds of Edo Tensei, molds white-hot chakra into throbbing pine, and suffocates the man in front of him with the powers of his Mokuton.

A simple seal, and the man is forgotten.

And when Hashirama peers down the steep cliff, and he spots hundreds upon hundreds of shinobi bearing their hitai-ate, there is no graceful dance, no gleaming kunai, no pretty words. He summons forth the dangers of a mighty dragon, and it shoots forwards, swallows a redheaded boy whole — armor and gourd included — and paints the earth in unrelenting crimson. Trees of the Jukai Kōtan sprout from this nourishment, twining around countless bodies, and each sickening snap of their spines are muffled by that of the distinctive scream Hashirama confronts face to face — the glow of the kyuubi's chakra his motivation.

"Why are you doing this!?" is the pitiful question he is asked, tears streaming down whisker-scarred cheeks, and Hashirama smiles.

_"Love."_

* * *

The hilt of Hashirama's sword suffocates among vice, unrelenting fingers, and it is like every other battle at 16 years old as Madara curls his lips and goads him in the necessary ways, with raging flames and the pits of hell bending to their will. His friend cuts deep underneath his skin, making the flesh and bone burn with every hack and swing of their weapons, and in return Hashirama marks that body with scars of his own making.

On the battlefield they are the monsters their clans raised them to be.

Power rampages through his every thought, screaming to let loose, and the beguilement has his stomach turning. He forces it down, down, masking it with an unwavering form — and inside it festers, unmarked, with nothing but a bright glint in his dark, dark eyes.

* * *

Particles of dust gleam in the moonlight, revealing thin lips parted in a breathless gasp as Hashirama's toes curl against white sheets, electricity running straight through him. Their young bodies dance with each other, slick with a film of sweat, and there is nothing — nothing but hypnotizing tomoe spinning in depths of passionate red.

"Madara—"

His hips jerk up, and their mouths meld together as he seizes his lover completely, reaching his peak and tumbling down the precipice. The only sound then, as he grips onto Madara's hip and rides out the final waves of warm pleasure, is that of their labored breathing.

His rough hands caress Madara's body, savoring the sensation of skin against skin, and one last, shaky sigh escapes his lips as he rests both palms on either of Madara's paleshoulders, fingers twining around the ends of dark, dark hair. His kisses are tender along Madara's jaw, and he breathes in the mix of their release and smoky katon.

* * *

They dance in filth and bile, branches of the Mokuon rushing through the forest, and with the flick of Hashirama's wrist he throws a kunai, dodges the swing of Madara's kama, and waits for the charge of his gunbai; but it does not come, and wood escapes Madara's lowered guard, twisting around his arms unexpectedly—

_A misstep?_

Hashirama stumbles back, startled, and stares at the welts marring porcelain skin.

* * *

Hashirama howls with laughter at the splash of a suiton, and Madara reluctantly laughs as well, dowsed in nearby river water; but then everything halts and he is brought to his knees, one fist in the grass, the other with knuckles pressed hard against his mouth, and even as Hashirama rushes to Madara's side and asks where the pain is, he knows that something is very wrong.

* * *

A signature of black tresses spill like ink down white cloth, catching in a hiked sleeve, brushing against a pale wrist, and Hashirama grasps that cold, cold, cold wrist, inhaling sharply at Madara's faint pulse.

A hacking cough, and his lover turns, cheek pressed against the pillow, and spits out blood.

Hashirama reaches to brush aside messy hair from Madara's right eye, and the tip of his nail scrapes ever so gently along the creases of agony permanently etched onto his forehead, and that makes him stop, bistre meeting charcoal gray — gray, Madara too weak to even grace him with the love of his Sharingan.

"Help me sit up," Madara says in a withering voice, and Hashirama already shakes his head, murmuring about how he's weak and wont get better if he doesn't rest.

"Don't."

Hashirama silences himself, pleading with his gaze even as he knows; he is no sensor, but as a medic he can feel an ebb of death, and he has no choice but to scramble with Madara's last request.

And there it is, that gnawing pain. He is a medic — a failure of a medic, as he can't even identify this illness, can't heal it away no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many scrolls he buries himself in to learn.

"Take my eyes."

"Madara—" he tries.

"Take my eyes, Hashirama."

"I'm sorry—" he gasps, hiding himself in the curve of a pale neck, and burns kiss after kiss into his skin, whispering the apology over and over.

Madara's head rolls, along with it a strand of hair, and ink caresses Hashirama's cheek as his tears stain the white, white cloth.

* * *

Konohagakure no Sato.

No one asks the question of who will lead the village — the dream Madara was unable to see fulfilled. It would certainly not be Tobirama, whose stern nature would hinder the new-found peace. It is the man who names this village with a small laugh, claiming it a Madara-esque simplicity.

"Brother, he died years ago..." Tobirama chides. "You'll be married soon. You have to move on."

"You know I can't."

"But—"

"_Tobirama_."

He quiets, casting his red eyes to the skyline of Konoha.

* * *

"Edo...Tensei?"

"Edo Tensei."

"...Show me."

* * *

Blood splatters on the white of a scroll, and it seeps into the earth as Hashirama calls forth the patterns of the seal, molding it into form with the sheer power of his chakra. The ink slithers through the grass, surrounding a pawn of Suna, and bright light dances up, up with folds of paper flesh, until it consumes the man whole, and he howls in misery as he takes that familiar form.

Eyes snap open, orbs of red glowing in deep-set black, and there is nothing but dead silence as an old lover's chakra flows through Madara Uchiha's veins.

And then, that voice—

"Hashirama?"

And Hashirama hurries in front of him, bloody fingertips capturing the side of a flaky cheek, and he presses his forehead against the other's, already leaning in for those lips which he has not tasted in years.

But he is cut short by freezing tomoe and narrowed eyes, and by words with an unnatural crispness to them.

"What is this?"

So he explains, with this curve of a smile and giddy laughter, at how amazing his little brother is — that he developed this outstanding jutsu to bring the dead back, and finally, finally they can be together now, without the hindrance of war and secrecy! And he shows him each hand sign, the magic of it, chakra weaving in a pattern which has Madara watching quietly, quietly.

"You are not Hashirama," Madara states, and Hashirama's eyebrows furrow further as he continues. "Release me from this jutsu, release me now!"

"Mada—"

"If you will not do it, then I will myself..."

When Madara, hands clasping together, pushes him away, — and Hashirama is unable to hold his lover as he vanishes, just like that, into the air and without explanation — the void in his chest smoulders and spreads, crackling at the edges.

He grabs onto a sleeve, but it is too late.

Madara is gone.

* * *

The next time it is a missing-nin from Kumo, and then one from Suna again, and a civilian from Kirigakure, and then finally, finally, a woman from Konoha. Her screams are the loudest, as she cries that her child is only four years old and needs her, that he please, please forgive her; but there is only a tinge of that sickness left to feel in his gut, and it fades away as his lover visits him once more.

"Stop this," Madara breathes, as he break free from the constraints of Edo Tensei with ease, and Hashirama wraps his fingers around that neck, squeezing and caressing desperately.

"Please, _please, _don't leave me again, not again—" he cries, voice shaking.

"Let me die in peace. This goes against all you spent countless years believing in, and no matter how many times you revive me, _I am still dead._"

"Don't say that, don't. I can find a way to make you alive—"

_"No."_

Madara fights him off, and this time when he dispels the jutsu, Hashirama collapses in on himself, choking on anger and tears, and inside his heart, his soul, his sanity — everything_ shatters _to endless, broken shards

* * *

It is in the quiet of the night that Hashirama comes to his decision; he retrieves a sealed jar, twists the lid open for the very first time, and dips weary fingers into the preserving liquid.

The moonlight glistens on his high cheekbones as he takes his free hand and plucks his own eyeballs out, weeping blood and tears for the very last time.

* * *

In the Naka Shrine, buried underneath tatami flooring lies a stone tablet, and it is here the Shodaime stands alone, a shiver passing through his spine as nails trace the once-indecipherable grooves carved with the powers of a god; but now his eyes spin with a power of their own, a power pulsating with the memory of his lover, and he reads each and every word presented to him, absorbing every bit of knowledge for hours and hours until—

There is only one way to gain what he desires.

_"The Rinnegan."_

* * *

Tobirama forms the unrelenting waves of a tsunami and charges onward, deflecting every slash of Hashirama's glistening sword, and the kyuubi growls and roars amongst the crashing water as quiet eyes flicker back and forth, avoiding the tainted Sharingan implanted in his brother's sockets.

Each jump of the Hiraishin has Hashirama faltering; but he is the God of Shinobi, and his crimson eyes predict each sway and step, tomoe dancing in rhythm. One last flare, and blinding chakra erupts all around them, a susano'o towering to the heavens in the purest skeletal white.

"Brother, this will solve nothing! Is this truly the decision you've made?" Tobirama asks him, eyes cast upwards.

_And it goes unspoken between them, just as everything ever did, a silent how could you, a cry of agony as the last two brother fight to the death — only one the victor._

The white, white susano'o roars with strength, sword slashing across the battlefield and reshaping the earth beneath their feet.

"I will kill even my own sibling, if I must!"

"And you must for _him? _Do you choose an old friend over your own brother!?"

The answer is in the surrounding, raging battlefield.

Mokuton branches crawl and break through the earth, wreathing a wicked pattern of sin as they curl around Tobirama; but even as he dodges each time, he slowly loses speed, and there is this one point where Hashirama spots the perfect opportunity —- a hesitant arm, a dragging foot — and he darts forward, blade impaling Tobirama from behind, violently tearing flesh.

"I...I've..." Tobirama breathes.

Hashirama twists his sword, and there is one last gurgle from his brothers lips, and then...

Nothing.

* * *

Amongst the vast crowd of shinobi lies a few hidden gems; there is a man with wild, silver hair and a spinning, spinning Sharingan, an obnoxious combo of green spandex, and to his left he notes the bulging eyes of the Hyuuga. A short old man spouts his words, and beside him is a group of three others — they are the four remaining Kage, Hashirama supposes.

One by one, the hands of the Hotei twine around them, and one by one they suffocate with a loud _pop! _

Blood splats on his hand and left cheek as he hacks through the crowd, and with each of his victim's slaughter that blond boy screams and hollers for him to stop, the flame of the kyuubi dancing with each clumsy step. The Gedo Mazo throbs with its incomplete power as Hashirama decorates the rock and grass around him in unending pints of thick red, and the rest of mankind drowns in his Suiton; but he hates this waste of time, and the shining white of the susano'o graces the battlefield once more — and all who see its beauty will die.

And with such ease, the next to fall is the jinchuuriki of the Gyuuki.

So then he turns, and his last and final care is put into the blond once more, the wielder of the Kyuubi, as he rallies those who've survived. Hashirama charges, tainted pine sprouting from his fingertips, and engages in this final dance with a lax smile, and he is so, so close to saving his lover, tasting those lips for the first time in a century, and this thought is the kerosene to an undying ember, kindling his entire soul—

"This isn't love!" the boy — Naruto, according to the screams of one of his earlier, pink haired victims — shouts, as Hashirama dodges yet another one of his Rasengan.

"You're wrong," Hashirama laughs, the flicker of a memory from long ago dancing in his head, one with whispers of love and passion and scalding kisses. "This is all because of love!"

And with one, final motion, Hashirama reaches out and take that fragile neck, digs fingers so deep into the flesh that it mars skin and bone with black bruises, and twists, twist, twists.

The last and final words from the boy's lips, before the echoed snap of his head ripping off his spinal cord rings through the air, is a barely-audible whisper and hidden plea.

"This is all because of death."


End file.
